Wrong
by Feej
Summary: "Many things made john angry these days. The news, Sherlock, Mary laughing too loud, tea, things Sherlock said wrong, things Sherlock should understand but didn't. Lots of things, Sherlock thought, absentmindedly pushing the tea bags around with a fork." Or: John is angry, Sherlock is lost, and Victor makes everything better.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock steeped the tea bags into the hot water and watched as they floated to the surface again. He wondered if he should have added the milk first, as he normally did, but dismissed the thought. John would insist the milk would clog the tea bag and the flavours wouldn't come out. It might make him angry.

Many things made john angry these days. The news, Sherlock, Mary laughing too loud, tea, things Sherlock said wrong, things Sherlock should understand but didn't.

Lots of things, he thought, absentmindedly pushing the tea bags around with a fork.

Tea would help, though, tea used to help, back when john had lived in Baker Street with him. Maybe he should ask mrs Hudson to bring some food as well, or take away, take away would make john happy-

'Are you seriously poking the tea bags with a fork?' John's voice cut off his train of thought. Ah, yes, spoons.

'Mm', he replied, reaching for the milk, 'the spoons aren't fit for tea making at the moment'.

John stayed where he was, leaning against the doorframe. He lifted an eyebrow, 'unfit...'

Sherlock couldn't keep back a small smile and nodded, 'yes, you remember the Harcourth case? The one with the-'

'Yes god I remember Sherlock, don't tell me you used the spoons for- oh Jesus never mind'

Sherlock fished out the remainder of the tea bags with the sound of john stomping back to the living room in his ears. Wrong, wrong again. It was harder like this, when john was drunk, even a little bit, or tipsy. He didn't like it when John was drunk, it made him unpredictable. Not the nice kind of unpredictable that had drawn him to the man when they first met, it was an unknown variable in John's behaviour that made Sherlock wary.

He finished pouring the tea, walked over to the living room where john was grumbling about hygiene, and hovered by the coffee table for a few seconds. He didn't like it when John was drunk, but he'd rather John was drunk here than at home with Mary and little Claire.

'I made tea,' he stated, handing John a mug.

'Ta'.

The flat was quiet for a few minutes, Sherlock flipped through a cold case Lestrade had left behind 'for when your big massive brain gets bored again' and sipped his tea, John stared out of the window.

Sherlock read the passage about mr. Duncan's left wrist three times before giving up. The silence was becoming less comfortable. John was still staring outside and hadn't drunk his tea.

He should probably say something. Ask about something, Mary, how was Mary doing, yes that would be a good start. Not that he needed to know, he'd spoken to Mary on Wednesday. And to Claire. Babbled, was the word Mary used, but Sherlock had dismissed that. Babbling was done to boring infants, Claire was already much more fascinating than any other child and thus he wasn't babbling, he was speaking.

He flipped a page in the case file, more for show than for anything else, 'how's Mary doing?'

John didn't move. 'Still attempting small talk, Sherlock?'

Sherlock shrugged, flipped another page without looking at the file, it was worth a try. 'Just curious'.

John laughed this time, 'please, don't bother, you don't do that, you're not-' he waved his hand to indicate whatever it was that Sherlock wasn't.

Sherlock nodded. It was fine. He probably wasn't.

'Do you have anything stronger than this?' John stood and picked up his cold tea, waving the cup towards the kitchen.

Sherlock hesitated. Drinks. For John. Tea, yes, beer, preferably not, not after the pub where he had likely been, and anything stronger was just out of the question. He expertly arranged his face in an expression of sympathy and shrugged once.

'No', he lied, 'sorry'.

John narrowed his eyes at him, blinking slowly a few times. 'You know', he started, 'that lying thing stopped being charming three years ago, Sherlock'. He then smiled gently and padded to the kitchen.

Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled slowly. It was fine. 'John-'

'-especially the lying to me for my own good thing' John continued from the kitchen, the sounds of cupboards being opened filtering into the living room.

'John, look-'

'-together with the pretending to care thing, you know'. John's voice was still so friendly, friendlier than Sherlock had heard it in the last few months, so when john appeared in the doorway holding a bottle of brandy, saying 'got a glass for this?' Sherlock just blinked, confused.

'No? Not gonna lie about that one? 'Sfine Sherlock, don't worry'. John smiled again and took a large swig from the bottle, grimacing at the taste.

It was maddening, Sherlock thought, the way his stupid brain responded eagerly to the kind tones of john's voice, while the words it spoke wedged themselves like tiny knifes into his chest.

He shook his head to clear it, without much success, and stood up from his chair, taking a step towards john, john, who smelled of beer and brandy now and was still smiling at him.

'John, I'm-'

'-Sherlock,' john interrupted quietly, 'if you say you're sorry one more bloody time I swear to god you will regret it'.

Sherlock tried to think, willing his heart to slow down, he needed to focus, this was important. He blinked a couple of times, saw john gulping down another mouthful of amber liquor and decided that this was just too confusing. John needed to stop drinking now, he needed to stop smiling and he needed to understand-

'But john you- I'm-'

'-STOP lying to me!'

The outburst was unexpected, and Sherlock flinched violently when the bottle hit the wall, smashing into little pieces raining down on the kitchen floor.

'Stop lying to me, you, Mary, ALL of you!'

John wasn't smiling anymore. His face was all wrong, eyes wide and mouth contorted in anger. Sherlock was rooted to the spot, staring.

John was still talking. His voice didn't sound friendly anymore. It hissed and growled and now matched the words it carried. Liar, sociopath, heartless. Sherlock could only listen.

Only when john abruptly moved away, shrugged on his jacket and made for the door did Sherlock remember to breath, to move, to act, quickly. He grabbed john's arm, blocking his path and hissed 'John, listen, you need to listen, please I-'

He didn't expect it. Which is why he had no idea what to do when john's hand closed around his wrist in an iron grip. Why he could do nothing but gasp in surprise when his hand was twisted painfully until the point he feared it might actually break. He screwed his eyes shut in pain and heard johns voice in his ear, quietly, 'do NOT pretend Sherlock. I know you. You do not care. You are defective. Stop lying to me,'

And then john was gone, Sherlock stood in the kitchen clutching his throbbing wrist, and blocking out whatever john shouted in parting , because it sounded too much like 'you should've stayed dead' and that wasn't right, john wouldn't say that, because john was right, john had always been right, keeping him right, and-

Glass crunched under his feet as he stepped back, the smell of alcohol overwhelming his senses, pleas in Serbian tumbling from his lips, and it was all wrong, wrong again!

He tried his very best to regulate his breathing, forcing his eyes open. Kitchen, Baker Street, alone, safe, it was fine, it was all fine. He tried. With his hands covering his eyes against the too bright light of the kitchen, he shut it all out until the world was blank for once.


	2. Chapter 2

Victor was grinning when he walked, no, bounced up the stairs of 221b. He hadn't told Sherlock he was coming home early. Nobody expected him for at least another three days. Sherlock would probably be elbow deep into some kind of experiment and Victor could just picture his face as he would be interrupted and oh gOd this was going to be brilliant!

One of the greatest privileges of being with Sherlock Holmes, victor mused while quietly unlocking the door, was seeing the look of surprise on his face at those rare moments he managed to catch the man off guard.

He sneaked into the living room without making a sound, good thing he'd left his suitcase downstairs, the wheels would've alerted Sherlock, and he wouldn't want that now wo-

'Shit', Victor breathed, surveying the scene in front of him. There was glass on the kitchen floor. Which was bad. Sherlock was sitting in one of the corners of the kitchen, knees pulled to his chest, arms wrapped around them, staring ahead. Which was worse.

'Shit, Sherlock..'

Within seconds Victor had dropped on his knees before the other man. Sherlock didn't seem to realize he was there. Victor cursed quietly. He placed a hand on Sherlock's ankle, 'Sherlock, Sherlock can you hear me?'

He received no reply, which wasn't good, but Sherlock didn't flinch away either, which wasn't bad, he decided.

He rubbed sherlock's arm, said his name and was ignored.

He whispered encouragements, gripped his shoulder gently and went completely unnoticed.

He curled his fingers carefully in sherlock's hair and whispered 'Will'. Sherlock blinked rapidly and slowly focused his gaze on the man in front of him.  
He blinked again, confused, and mumbled 'Victor' before closing his eyes.

'Yes, it's me, listen, Will, can you open your eyes for me again please?'

Sherlock would like to say no, because the dark was so much nicer right now, and the kitchen was just so bright, but this was Victor, and when had he ever been able to refuse Victor anything at all . He settled for a quiet 'hm' and opened his eyes. Victor did something with his fingers, which looked familiar, and muttered something about normal pupil reaction.

He felt victor's hands run over his head, shoulders, arms and he hissed in surprise at the sharp pain in his wrist. He vaguely registered Victor talking quietly, saying 'fine' and 'all right' and 'take care of you' before Victor was gone from his side.

Victor rummaged in the bathroom cabinet for the first aid kit and hurried back to where sherlock's breathing is picking up pace. No, not good. He placed sherlock's uninjured hand on his own chest and quietly instructed him to breathe, just breathe Will.

The damaged wrist was a mess. Victor blinked past the red haze clouding his vision as he bandaged sherlock's arm and hand carefully, the contrast between his controlled movements and the vicious litany of curses inside his head almost funny enough to warrant a laugh. All that came out was a half hearted chuckle. He worked in silence after that.

There was a glass of water in his hand, and two small pills in the other. Painkillers, sherlock's brain provided helpfully. He would like that, he hurt. Swallowing the pills down, Sherlock could hear Victor asking something. Feel? How did he feel?

Defective, he wanted to say, a bit defective, but he couldn't say that because that was wrong, and certainly whatever john had said he hadn't meant it truly, and he mustn't have meant the staying dead, and oh- he hadn't wanted to say that out loud, but going by the look on Victor's face he might've done.

Victor looked almost comical, his mouth moving, opening, closing, opening, without any sound coming out. A bit like a goldfish, Sherlock mused. He might have said that out loud as well, because Victor looked a little less sad. Victor's smile was the best thing he had seen in a long time, so he decided to repeat his goldfish observation. Anything.

Victor wrapped both arms around sherlock's shoulders and held him tight. He might've been crying, Sherlock couldn't tell, he just buried his face in the crook of victor's neck and breathed in slowly.

It took a while for them both to get on their feet, Sherlock leaning on Victor, who was now tangled in long arms and legs.

'Come on you ridiculous giraffe, to bed with you'. Victor led Sherlock around the kitchen table, carefully avoiding any glass, picked his way around case files and books in the bedroom, wrapped the other man in as many blankets as he managed to find, and let them both collapse on the bed.

Sherlock all but curled up into his arms, mumbling apologies for god knows what promises of doing better and of really really trying.

Victor shook his head, and spent the night whispering nonsense, silly things, and I love you's, many I love you's, until Sherlock finally fell asleep.

* * *

Sherlock woke up to Victor tracing patterns on his back absentmindedly, staring at the ceiling.

'I'm going to kill him', Victor stared calmly, 'nothing you can do, comes with dating MI6, I'm going to bloody well kill him'.

Sherlock stretched, slowly, and smiled as the hand resumed its pattern, 'Can't', he hummed

'And why not?'

'I hid your gun', Sherlock sounded almost proud of his achievement.

Victor sat up abruptly, 'You what? It was already hidden! Hidden from you! Mister I-will-just-use-this-for-an-experiment!'

'I hid it again. Better this time. You won't find it.'

Victor rolled into his back and muttered darkly about Sherlock-proofing his hiding places, gun safety and that Sherlock was being an idiot if he thought he wouldn't find the bloody thing sooner or later.

He then turned to face Sherlock again, cradling his damaged wrist in his hands between their bodies.

'Will, whatever he did, whatever he said, he was wrong, yeah?'

Sherlock looked down at their hands, then up at Victor's face. 'He was wrong,' he repeated.

Victor nodded, 'Remember that, you're fine, yeah? Bloody perfect. Now come here,' he mumbled before kissing Sherlock, grabbing the blankets and announcing 'Now get your lazy arse out of bed, Greg is on his way and he's bringing breakfast'.


End file.
